A Desolate Womb

Charlie rests against the unsteady railing of the hotel’s balcony while his wife, Diane, patrols the sea’s waves from her place on a torn-up sun lounge. Diane’s ankle-length mint skirt surrounds her hips in order for the milky flesh of her legs to bronze, the first three buttons on her cream satin blouse fall unsealed to the side, allowing sunbeams to tap at her collarbones as well as the swells of her breasts. Brown, oversized, square sunglasses are propped on her nose, while French tipped toenails dig into the cushioned chair beneath her, and bottom teeth pick at her stiff upper lip. Her emerald eyes glance towards her husband, between long strands of carob curtains, in wonder as to whether the railing has finally given out and sent him to early death in the rocks below. She is disappointed each time. Whenever his sunken saxe blue eyes steer away from his wife, she scrutinises the black and white stripes of his perfectly ironed shirt, or his kicked up leg suffocating in the expensive-beige material of his trousers. With each tap of his spit cleaned work shoes, Diane feels her brow twitch in annoyance. 

Charlie thought stringing the fiery attitude of his wife along with him to a work event in France could be a marriage-saving idea. But, although he has yet to notice the resentment brewing behind her eyes, the unusual silence of his wife has his mind overthinking his decisions. He has picked up on how, for several months now, Diane’s actions and states seem more robotic, or zombified, ever since their relationship struggled with new life. Sleeping pills have become a new pulp in her morning orange juice, as well as a side dish during every meal. Though Charlie is aware, his tongue refuses to lift in a beg for her to stop. So she continues on with muted days, sleepy baths and makeup nights old, without a word from her husband. 

“I’ll be at a meeting tonight at the restaurant downstairs. Maybe, you could join me after…for something to eat.” He suggests with false eagerness.

“Sure.” She replies simply, tilting her head back and letting her top lashes encase the lower lashes, a tight-lipped smile gracing her face. 

“You don’t have to.” He defends, aware of his wife’s sudden distaste for the outside world. “Thought it would be a nice change…compared to being cooped up in a hotel room.” 

At the judgement in his tone, Diane’s grin fattens, her right eye peeks open to spot Charlie’s focus circled in on the bones of her knees. She knocks her knees together in order to disrupt her husband's concentration; clamping her eye shut when his gaze approaches. 

“I don’t mind.” She lies through cigarette yellow teeth. 

Once the pair situated themselves at a table in the corner of the restaurant, Diane sends Charlie’s business partners a lazy flutter of fingers and drop of her head. They sit opposite each other within the air that should be fresh, but begins to pollute with every avoidance of eyes. The squared sun protectors stay firmly planted on Diane’s nose, even in the dimming lights of the restaurant. With a small glass a quarter full of whiskey, Charlie mimics his wife as he picks up the menu and pretends to read through the starters. Diane curls her lip at his actions, already conscious of his many nights spent in this exact restaurant with his business partners, internally mocking him for still searching when he’s chosen his meal. 

“This is nice.” Charlie smiles at Diane with caution. She hasn’t murmured a word since she arrived: no scrutiny over the choice of decor, no instant demand for water, no inpatient tapping of her manicured nails against the table cloth. 

“Sure.” She answers, sending him the same tight-lipped smile he’s come accustomed to. 

“Diane, are you okay?” He finally spits out with irritation to her constant distance. 

“I’m grand.” She fibs, daggers springing from her squint. 

This is the first time Charlie has even attempted to talk emotions since the multiple foetuses’ that withered in his wife’s womb, not too long ago. He hadn’t so much witnessed a singular tear leave the emptiness of her orbs, and that scares him the most. Whereas Diane is usually too drugged up to even process the Spring that consisted of an aching uterus and heart drowning loss. 

“Are we okay?” He asks in hopes of an honest answer, bad or good. 

“We’re exactly how we’ve always been.” She states with a warning in her tone. She doesn’t want him to bring up the subject just as much as he doesn’t want her pulling away from him. Yet, to Diane, their marriage seemed less relevant due to the lack of family growth. 

“I think I’ll have the salmon.” Diverting the conversation has become her only way of taking any sort of control of the situation, and her marriage. No longer can she tolerate the smack of her husband's lips, or his drunk paws digging into her hips of night, or a simple clear of his throat. It seems she is struggling to grasp at what truly fills her heart since the man who once did is now tainted in her sage eyes, unable to give her what she desires. 

“Maybe we should talk abou-.” Charlie is interrupted by the smack of his wife’s hand upon the rickety table.

“I really like the art over on the back wall…we should buy some for the house.” She offers with a shaky breath intertwined within her words. The bones of her fingers twitch beneath her diamond wedding ring, the lies beginning to affect her whole being. She hates the art on the wall, she thinks it’s tacky, but she hates her barren husband more. So, she is willing to have as many conversations as it takes to steer his attention away from what could possibly send her open hand towards his face. 

“Yes…we could.” He agrees, defeat emanating from his pores. Fluffy brows fall low above desperate eyes at the loss of his past lover, finding difficulty in identifying the woman emotionless before him. 

A waiter approaches the withdrawn couple with glee and words of “can I help you?” Yet fails to catch the shake of the woman’s head as she answers ‘sure’ and the clench of the man's fist as he murmurs, ‘please.’